


the truth is like blood underneath your fingernails

by celosiaa



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fainting, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Panic Attacks, Self-Destruction, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Statement withdrawal, Trans Martin Blackwood, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25638919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celosiaa/pseuds/celosiaa
Summary: Love, Hunger, pain, anxiety.Jon feels it all at once in the wake of statement withdrawal, and can hardly bear it.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 63
Kudos: 351





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [transcendentalbf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/transcendentalbf/gifts).



> CW: use of exercise as a form of self injury, fighting, self-hatred, alcohol use, language
> 
> hey everybody! this is for a lovely prompt from the even lovelier @transcendentalbf, who requested a statement withdrawal fic. I'm not going to lie, this one got pretty heavy, even for me--and I don't usually skimp on the angst. be mindful of the tags and the content warnings! there will also be a second chapter!
> 
> (Jon's thoughts are formatted in italics)

_Faster. Faster. Faster._

Heart pounding, pulse racing, Jon flies through the Highland countryside, hair streaming behind him from where his ponytail has come undone. There is no feeling quite like this—the shaking of effort in every corner of his body, every nerve alight, lungs heaving and overburdened. No matter the hurt, no matter the discomfort, Jon has yet to find anything so wonderfully distracting as running.

Even so, the constant static of _Hunger_ still hums in the background, buzzing somewhere between his skull and his spine. He’s learned over the weeks of refusing it statements that he cannot run into town, cannot risk looking anyone in the eyes without being overcome by _Want_. The Beholding is not pleased with him, and Jon knows it—feels it in the way that his every action has been poisoned by the relentless desire to _Eat_ and to _Know_. 

Martin has undoubtedly gotten the worst of it. When Jon had first announced that he was going to be running in the afternoons, he was elated—chuffed at the idea of doing something together other than their routine of cooking, eating, sleeping day in and day out. Jon had even let him come on his run that day, and knows that he would have loved it, were he not prevented from applying his usual method of quite literally running himself into the ground. Their average pace was not nearly enough to distract him, or even to burn out the anxiety that’s taken hold of his chest, and so Jon had told Martin he’d prefer to be alone.

Poor choice of words.

This had caused somewhat of a row, with Jon’s sudden inability to articulate exactly what he meant providing most of the fodder. Martin was upset, thought that he had done something wrong, thought that Jon didn’t want to be with him anymore—all things that Jon knows are the fragments of the Lonely still residing in him, still marked by the faded white of his naturally dark curls. With difficulty, Jon had managed to break through, explaining that he had always liked to have some time alone. That he needed a few moments just to think and process and enjoy the peacefulness on his own. 

This wasn’t entirely a lie—but it wasn’t the truth either, and it left a foul taste in his mouth all the same.

Martin had believed him, of course. He’d even apologized the next day by going down to the village and buying him a phone holster he could strap onto his arm while he runs. With a plastered-on smile, Jon had accepted the gift. He will never tell Martin that he can’t bear the way it sticks to his skin, or that playing music is completely out of the question. He will never tell him that none of this is about health or exercise—it’s about the hurt, it’s about the distraction, it’s about the punishment that Jon knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he deserves.

He’s thirty minutes into the run now, and he’s reached the point at which singular thoughts can no longer filter across his mind. Pushing constantly further, faster, harder strips all of this away, and he’s left with the blessed silence of a clear mind.

That is, until his foot lands a bit funny on a rock, and it sends shooting pains through his knee—old injury reignited in an instant.

_Fuck._

He stumbles, hands reaching forward as he begins to lose his balance. Through luck, or skill, or perhaps sheer determination, he manages to stay upright and moving forward, knee throbbing in protest at every step. But he cannot afford to stop now—refuses to give in to the building static.

 _Breathe through it. Just breathe through it_ , a kind teacher had once told him in the wake of losing his parents. He does his best to follow that advice now, the pain at least giving him something to focus on, pushing the Hunger to the back of his mind. Even so, the incessant pulling at his injury is enough to plant a permanent wince on his face.

_Martin is **not** going to be pleased with me._

\---

Upon entering their little home, Jon’s senses are immediately overcome with powerful-smelling spices, floating through each and every dust-laden corner. From where he stands, he can see just a bit of Martin standing at the kitchen counter, carefully chopping an onion using the knife skills Jon had so recently taught him. In spite of himself, Jon’s chest swells with pride, pulling the corners of his mouth into a small smile, before the reality of his situation overtakes him again.

_Perhaps I can sneak past, get in the shower before he notices._

Setting out to do just that, Jon silently pulls of his trainers and begins to cross the room—heel-toe, heel-toe, ever so careful of the creaking floorboards of their kitchen. But of course, Martin would choose to glance over his shoulder at this very moment.

_Of course._

“Oh there you are! How was it?” he asks, voice light and jovial as he stirs something in a large pot.

“Good, good,” Jon replies hurriedly, trying to take advantage of Martin’s distraction and hobble as quickly as he can toward the shower.

“Wait, wait, before you go—come taste this and see what you think.”

_Damn it._

With steps as measured and careful as he can manage, Jon walks toward him, keeping a smile firmly plastered on his face. Of course, his efforts are in vain—the second Jon begins crossing the room, Martin’s face falls.

“You’re limping. Why are you limping?” he asks, brows knitting together in concern.

“Erm—got a little carried away. I’m fine, it’ll loosen up in the shower,” Jon assures, dropping his eyes, and attempting to walk away.

Martin grabs him by his forearm—with no real force, but the pressure on his overly-sensitive skin is enough to send lightning bolts of agitation through him. Static begins to rise.

“That doesn’t look fine. Here, why don’t you sit down—”

“I’m fine, Martin—”

“Just put some ice on it for a bit—”

**“ _I said, I’m FINE, for god’s sake!”_**

Jon’s words bend and twist into a seething shout as he yanks his forearm from Martin’s gentle grasp, the static flaring from him like a beacon. The eyes that meet his are no longer the loving concern of a just a few moments ago—turning hard and angry at this undeserved outburst. Staring at him coldly for a moment, Martin simply pivots on his heel and begins heatedly stirring at the large pot, head bowed.

Seeing Martin this way dissolves the fire of anger in Jon’s belly at once, replaced instead with the cold bitterness of shame.

_God, what is wrong with me?_

“I-I’m sorry, Martin, you didn’t…you didn’t deserve that,” he mumbles, running a hand over his wan face.

“No, I didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

Martin does not turn around, continuing to stir agitatedly at his pot, and Jon can hear him taking deep breaths in through his nose, out through his mouth. He hates that he’s the cause of this; _hates_ that Martin has to resort to these things just to deal with the frustration he brings to the table.

_And the Eye drinks it all in._

_…I can’t let it._

Resolved to at least try to make things better, Jon moves slowly around the kitchen table and to the freezer, taking Martin’s advice and grabbing a bag of frozen vegetables. Sinking down painfully into a chair, he undoes the Velcro straps of his brace and plops the pack down onto the swollen wreckage of his knee. Admittedly, Martin had been right—the coolness immediately begins to pull some of the pulsing, swelling ache from his limb, drawing a long sigh from somewhere deep in his chest.

“You need to prop it up too, here—”

Martin has turned back to him at last, reaching around behind Jon to grab a pillow from the sofa and set it on the chair in front of him. As Jon begins to lift his leg up and onto it, he cannot quite bite back a groan of pain, nor hide the wince that floods his face. Concernedly, Martin watches him, hands on his hips in consternation.

“You really did a number on yourself, didn’t you?” he mutters softly, brows knitting together.

Jon cannot bring himself to answer, too ashamed even to look up.

 _Don’t worry about me,_ he wants desperately to say. _I’m not worth it._

_I’m not worth the hurt that I cause._

When Martin turns away again without a word, Jon’s chest aches in a way it hasn’t in quite some time. Certainly not since he heard those devastating words in the Lonely, from Martin’s own mouth—

_“I really loved you, you know?”_

_Perhaps the same is true now._

_“Loved.”_

Jon squeezes his eyes shut against the rising tide of emotions, threatening to burst from him when—

Martin kneels in front of him, placing a second frozen bag beneath his knee before carefully wrapping an ace bandage around both, holding them together around the joint with a wonderfully relieving pressure. At once, Jon’s eyes begin to sting.

_I don’t deserve this._

“Thank you,” he whispers, full of shame. “I’m sorry.”

From where he kneels in front of him, Martin lifts his head to search Jon’s eyes for a moment, worrying at his bottom lip in consideration. At last, he stands to his full height, taking a deep breath before removing the dish towel from where he’s draped it across one broad shoulder. He swipes it gently over the beads of sweat that are still rolling down Jon’s face, and to his utter surprise—kisses him tenderly over the temple.

Jon’s cheeks flare with heat at this, warmth immediately pooling in his stomach.

He is utterly, hopelessly smitten with the man in front of him.

_God help him._

“It’s alright, Jon,” Martin says at last, voice returning to something approaching his normal volume. 

“Look, I’m really proud of you for running, alright? It’s good for you. But not when your hurt yourself like this,” he continues, tapping lightly at the packs encasing Jon’s knee, forcing Jon to meet his eyes with the intensity of his stare.

“It’s not worth that. Okay?” he ends in a whisper.

Jon merely nods, overwhelmed and embarrassed by the entire situation. Martin, gentle as always, reaches a hand up toward his hair, pushing down the frizzled locks that had been blown wild by the Highland winds.

“Alright, then,” he adds simply, turning back to their dinner with a lopsided smile.

\---

The next day, Jon finds himself scarcely able to bear this particular combination of pain and Hunger.

Martin had made him promise the previous evening that he would take the day off from running, allowing his knee at least the chance to heal up a bit before he began abusing it again. While he knows Martin is right, knows he’s trying to look after him—Jon cannot bear the roiling anxiety of inactivity, his body screaming at him to _run run run_ just to escape his own mind.

Once again, Martin bears the brunt of it all.

He _knows_ he’s being impossible; _knows_ that Martin is nearly at his wits end, yet the relentless static fuzzes out whatever words he’s snapping at him now—and for what reason, Jon is no longer sure. The anger tumbles out of him like ink over parchment, pulling all his pain, frustration, and Hunger from his shaking form and placing it on Martin’s shoulders.

And Martin is beyond overwrought.

Turning toward him sharply, Martin bears down on him with cold gaze.

“You know what? I’ve had enough! I’ve had enough,” he shouts, voice melting into a laugh that holds no humor.

Jon’s mouth snaps shut at once, the static fading to nothing now that it’s work has been done.

“I consider myself a patient person, Jon, I really do—but this has pushed me quite to my limit, so congratulations,” he spits, grabbing his keys from the table.

_No no no no no_

“I’m going to the village. Don’t wait up,” he mutters with finality, striding across the room and out the door with a BANG.

_Oh god oh god oh god_

Left alone now in the quiet emptiness of their—of _Daisy’s_ house, Jon stumbles backwards, burying his face in his hands.

_Why did you do this why did you do this why did you do this_

He begs the Eye to answer him, beating his palm into his own chest, and cannot hold back the flood of _Knowledge_ seeping across his mind.

His love, leaning against the side of the cottage, chest heaving with sobs.

His love, striding angrily down toward the pub, tears still streaming down his face as it begins to rain.

His love, getting sloppy-drunk alone, all alone—with no one to walk him home, to make sure he’s safe—

_Please._

_I can’t bear it._

_Please._

Jon folds forward over his legs, sick at the thought that he caused this, that he’s the one who so severely hurt him—and promptly falls to the floor in a wave of dizziness.

_God, Martin._

_I’m so sorry, my love._

Even now, he cannot bring his tears to the surface, simply lying on the floor until his chest no longer feels as though it’s been pinned to the earth’s core. At last, he forces himself to get up, to move forward—shirking the thought of dinner and moving directly up the stairs toward their bed.

 _Daisy’s bed,_ he corrects himself internally.

_God knows if he’ll ever come back to make it ours._

\---

Jon cannot bring himself to any semblance of sleep until he knows Martin has returned.

The Eye constantly pulls at him to look, to see where he’s gone and what he’s doing now, but Jon refuses. He will not invade Martin’s privacy like that—not if he can ever help it.

_Please come home._

_Please._

_Please._

Lying silent and still beneath the covers, the room around him is illuminated only by the light of the moon peeking in through the window. Even in the stillness there remains the static, though pushed down considerably now by the weight of Jon’s own sadness. Of his regret.

 _Drink it. Drink it all, if that will satisfy you,_ Jon thinks bitterly, wishing to god that it would be enough.

At last, he hears the unlocking of the front door below—a bit clumsy and heavy-handed, telling Jon immediately that he’s still a bit drunk. Relief floods him at the sound all the same, and he turns away from the bedroom door to feign sleep, wanting to give Martin some privacy.

Though his movements are somewhat sloppy with alcohol, Martin does his best to tiptoe quietly around the room, undressing to his boxers and replacing his jumper and binder with a t-shirt. Slowly, ever so slowly, he crawls into bed, making every effort not to disturb Jon at the other side. Jon feels as though he could cry with the obvious love he pours into every gentle motion, before—

He can sense Martin’s arms reaching for him, hovering over his back to pull him close, as always—before dropping them.

_God._

He settles instead for pulling the blanket further over Jon’s shoulders, muttering as he does so, words slurring—

“Don’ understand. Jus’ don’ understand.”

_Oh, Martin._

Jon’s heart crumbles to pieces.

He cannot bear to leave this the way things are—not tonight, nor any other. Flipping around at once to face him, Martin’s eyes snap back open—wide with concern and anxiety.

“I know you don’t, Martin. I know, and I’m so sorry,” Jon whispers, cupping his cheek with one scarred hand, tears still burning painfully in his throat.

Martin’s tears seem to have no trouble reaching the surface, spilling over at once in rivulets down his face and off the tip of his nose.

“I don’t understand, Jon, I don’t understand,” he sobs, clapping a hand over his mouth in an attempt to stem the flow, inhaling shakily behind it.

_Look what you’ve done look what you’ve done_

“I’m so sorry, darling, none of this is your fault, I’m so sorry” Jon murmurs over and over, pulling Martin into his chest—an invitation for him to let go of all his anger and sadness in the crook of his shoulder.

Martin does so, clutching at Jon’s back until the drink-induced drowsiness pulls him under at last.

Jon lies awake—still in the silence, still in the rising static.

_I’m sorry, my love._

_I’m so sorry._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: panic attacks, use of exercise as a form of self injury, self-hatred, language
> 
> at last...here is the comfort side of this fic. did I write this during class? sure did!!! do I regret it? definitely not!!!!
> 
> please enjoy!
> 
> (Jon's thoughts are formatted in italics. The Eye speaks in glitched text.)

7am.

The morning sun begins to creep into their room, spilling over their blankets and onto the floorboards in a stark white glow. Though the birds begin to wake up at the sight, the frost on the window tells Jon that they will soon fly south for the winter, if the majority haven’t already. He hadn’t managed to sleep at all last night—he had cradled Martin into the early hours of the morning, long after his tears had subsided into snores. Eventually, though, the sensation simply grew too much for his overwrought nerves. Now, as he sits against the headboard in the cold daylight, even the blanket is beginning to grate on him.

_God, this is miserable._

Looking over at Martin, Jon can tell he’s still going to be dead asleep for quite some time, perhaps even hungover when he does awaken. The now-familiar twinge of guilt grips him as his eyes pass over the puffiness of his face, the lids of his eyes still reddened with the tears of the night before. Shaking his head in rising fury at himself, he wants nothing more than to have what they did in their first few weeks of living at the cottage—just to hold him, effortlessly, lovingly as the day passes by in a quiet warmth.

But now Jon is starting to think that this trembling through his body will never stop. Everything in him is screaming at him to _get up,_ to _move move move_ just to get the cursed buzz of the static down to something manageable. It’s too much—it’s all too much, and the gnawing _hunger_ begins to eat away at him, threatening to reach out for Martin’s sadness, for his pain—

_I’ve got to move._

_I’ve got to run run run run_

When his breathing begins to pick up speed, Jon knows he can’t risk staying here any longer. He glances apologetically at Martin before rising as carefully as possible from the bed, taking extra care not to jostle him or to step on the creaking floorboards as he makes his exit. Descending to the main floor, his movements pick up urgency as he pulls on his running clothes, knee brace, and trainers—hands trembling almost too violently to tie the laces. He nearly bolts from the room as he finishes at last, anxiety pulsing and swelling into some nightmarish thing, before he thinks to write a note to Martin, in case he wakes up and finds him gone.

He cannot risk Martin thinking that he’s left him.

Can’t imagine anything worse than that.

Scribbling quickly onto an old receipt, he slides it across the table and makes a break for the door.

\---

Exhilarating and excruciating: that’s how Jon would describe this general sensation. At this point, he finds himself beginning to revel in the pain that shoots down his leg with every step, knowing he’s deserving of it, knowing it will distract him for as long as he can just keep going.

And that, well…that he can do.

He runs until his feet grow numb, until his chest no longer feels like a gaping wound, until his mind is utterly clear and for once—for once—the Eye closes. Unable to hold back the elation this brings him, he allows an awful screeching laughter to burst from his throat, smile wide and clenched tight as he keeps running—far further than he’s ever run from their cottage, unwilling to face the terrible truth that no amount of distance he runs could ever be far enough to satisfy him. For now, for these few moments—Jon revels in a freedom he hasn’t felt since this entire nightmare began.

But of course, all things good and free must come to an end—this time, it comes in the form of a rainstorm. The first drop that hits Jon’s arm sends a spark of lightning through him, his cursed skin so sensitive to any disturbance now that the steadily falling droplets feel like being pelted with small stones. Spilling over him in a deluge, the magnitude of abuse he’s just put his body through drags his feet to a stop—limbs trembling so violently that he barely remains upright as he does so.

_Damn it all damn it all_

Jon knows in this moment, gasping desperately in the downpour, that if does not keep moving, he will be unable to start again—and god knows if anyone would ever find him out here. 

S̚t̂oͣp̾ͥ ̩̿m͉̹o̫̍̿v̘̫ͤi͙̳̍n̻ͬ̎ġ̞̩ͦ ̯̯̞͍a̫͙͗͛ṅ͍̽ͭḋ̥͉͛ ̱͔ͧ̎y͚͉͛ͦō̟̋̚ȕ̩̗̭'̝̔͗ͩlͦͤ͋̾l̳͖͈̒ ̘͆̔̔s͋̉͑͌ț̹̌͆o͙ͦͩ͌p͈̫̯ ̠̺̐b̟̌͋r̳̋ͨė̪a͓͗tͦ̚h͔̄i̗nͭg͌, some cruel and terrifying voice from within him says with glee.

Everything in him screams at him to collapse as he picks up one shaking foot, instead jogging himself back into a run in the direction of home, the light shower quickly becoming a storm.

\---

Jon will never know exactly how, but he makes it back to the cottage, forced to take the last half-mile or so at a miserable limping pace. Breaths heaving with an audible wheeze, his vision comes in and out of focus as he trudges up this final hill, drenched to the bone and _aching aching aching._ Through the grey rain-curtains, he can just barely see the outline of Martin sitting on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, waiting for him to come home. At the sight, Jon can’t help but let out a cry of relief, thoughts flooded with nothing but _Martin Martin Martin._

He must have heard Jon’s shout, for as soon as he walks a bit closer, Martin jumps to his feet—blanket falling free of his shoulders as his eyes widen in horror.

“ _Christ,_ Jon,” he yells, running out into the rain towards him.

Jon wants to cry out, tell him to turn back, he’ll get soaked—

Then everything begins to swirl sickeningly around him, and he can no longer tell which way is up.

“Oh, _Christ,_ ” he hears from somewhere far, far away—and he is suddenly encased in strong, warm arms.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you, can you walk?” Martin says, barely audible above Jon’s own panicked breathing.

He tries to support himself for a brief moment, limbs shaking, before a violent pulse of static blacks out his vision and buckles his knees. With dim awareness, he feels himself being swept up into Martin’s arms near effortlessly, feels the rain hitting his face and neck and it _hurts, God it hurts—_

When he opens his eyes again, he’s being laid gently on the sofa, Martin muttering to him all the while.

“Alright, it’s alright, I’ve got you,” he repeats, voice thick and trembling as his eyes begin to scan Jon’s body for the source of the injury.

S̗̋e͓̹͋e̖͗̋̒ ̞͙̱̇ͫẅ͔̘̰͔̌̍h̳̙̙̯̋ͧ̿ȁ̟͔͖͕̱̌͌ť̹͓͍̝͕̗͂͗ ̦̫͈̽ͫ̄͊̍̚y͉̥̼̼̦͓̙ͤͬǒ͕͓̥̄ͣͥ̿ͅū͓̫͙̠ͭ̓ͯ'̬̮̤ͫ̓̒ͩ̅v̦͓͔͂͐͆̚e͕̝̤̬͓̮ ̥͙̍̐̉d̩͇̳͎o̻̗̽n͆e?

Static once more bursts through Jon’s mind, the Eye overwhelming his senses—head spinning, ears ringing, breaths picking back up into short and shallow gasps—

“Jon? Hey, are you with me? Are you hurt?”

Martin’s voice reaches him as though through many thick sheets of glass, nearly drowned out by the explosion currently taking place in Jon’s mind. As best as he can, he grabs hold of it, feels the weight of Martin’s hand on his arm, willing it to pull him from the depths—

The sounds of the cottage around him come back in a rush, the pounding rain echoing through his mind. Bending over him with eyes as wide as saucers is Martin, rain-soaked fringe hanging down over his panicked face.

_God, look what I’ve done._

_This is all you’re meant for_

_To hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt_

“Jon? Are you with me, love?” he says shakily, brushing his damp hair away from his face with gentle hands.

_Why do you love me why do you love me_

It’s too much; it’s all too much. His wrenching breaths choke off quickly into sobs, an arm reaching up to drape over his eyes.

“Oh god, what’s happened, Jon? Where does it hurt?”

“I’m sorry, Martin—I’m s-so sorry—I ca—” he breaks off to gasp desperately for air, the oxygen in the room suddenly not enough to sustain him.

For a moment, Martin freezes—hands hovering above him in shock before he jumps into action.

“Okay, okay—J-Jon, you’re hyperventilating. It’s alright, just…just try to breathe with me, sweetheart, I’m right here with you. Let’s sit up, okay? Come on—” he soothes with a forced calm, gently pulling Jon up by the shoulders to sit with his feet on the floor.

“Head down by your knees, that’s it,” he continues, sitting on the coffee table in front of him, grounding him with a sturdy grip on his upper arms.

Jon reaches out to clutch at his shirt like it’s his only lifeline.

“That’s right, I’m right here,” Martin encourages, not letting up on his grip. “Just listen to my voice, and follow me back, okay?”

_I don’t deserve him I don’t deserve him I don’t deserve him_

Even with this panicked train of thought, the gentle music of Martin’s voice gives him something on which to focus—something warm, and loving, and _home._ His breaths begin to gradually slow; his pounding heart no longer audible in his ears—though he is left trembling and cold and _so hungry._

“What’s happened, Jon? Is it your leg?”

_I wish that more than anything._

Everything is still _too much too much too much,_ and Jon buries his face in his hands, sniffling in the wake of his tears and shaking his head. Martin remains silent for a few moments, and Jon can feel his gaze boring into him—can feel him carefully considering what to do next.

_Is he…afraid of me?_

_God._

“Hold on, I’ll get you a towel,” he murmurs at last, standing and walking quickly toward the bathroom.

As soon as he leaves the room, tears sting at Jon’s eyes again, and he’s too exhausted to do anything but let them roll freely down his cheeks. It’s been weeks since he’s felt himself able to cry, too distanced from his own emotions—but they feel neither relieving nor cathartic, the hot trails of them merely seeming to pull all his pain from within to the outside. Martin returns after a few moments, a glass of water and a bath towel in hand.

“Oh, darling,” he sighs tremulously, and Jon can hear at once that Martin is coming close to tears himself—the incredible strength of his own empathy drawing Jon’s pain onto himself.

He refuses to give in, however, seeming to steel himself for Jon’s sake as he begins to gently rub the towel over his sopping hair, his chest, his back—taking extra care over his unbelievably swollen leg before tossing it to the side. Job done as well as he can for now, he returns to sitting on the coffee table in front of Jon, their legs bumping together slightly.

“You’ve got to tell me what’s happened, Jon. You’re scaring me.”

Jon _Knows_ it’s true, knows he has to tell him—but the words feel so heavy in his throat. After a few more moments of sitting in silence, Jon continuing to tremble in front of him, Martin pulls the blanket from the back of the couch and drapes it over Jon’s shoulders. He then grips the edges of it lightly, leaning in to try to catch Jon’s gaze.

“Please, Jon. I’m begging you. Please tell me,” he murmurs desperately.

_I’ve got to tell him._

_He’s frightened, and I’ve got to tell him._

“You’ll hate me for it,” Jon warns in a whisper, head still drooping toward the floor.

At this, Martin sputters briefly, seemingly hurt by the very suggestion.

“Sweetheart, I—I very much doubt that,” he soothes gently, running his hands up and down Jon’s upper arms to warm him up.

_You’re too good you’re too good you’re too good_

Words spill from him in a rush, biting through the shame.

“I just…I-I can’t think, I can’t _breathe,_ I…I can’t do anything because I’m so…” he chokes, breaking off with a sniff.

“…I’m so _hungry_ , and I hate it,” he confesses at last, voice whittled down to a mere whisper.

“Hungry…?” Martin questions, head tilting in confusion for a moment before understanding dawns on him. “Oh, _hungry._ Right.”

Hearing the words in Martin mouth renews Jon’s shame at once, and the sobs bubble up in his chest once again.

“Hey hey hey, listen, Jon,” Martin says softly, keeping a gentle hold on his biceps. “When’s the last time you read one?”

At once, the shame becomes a hot knife, anger flaring like a beacon as he raises his voice.

“I don’t _want_ it Martin, I can’t—”

“Jon—”

“ ** _I can’t bring anymore nightmares into the world_** **.** I just can’t. I-I won’t,” he shouts, bracing his hands against the couch cushions as he tries to stand—

And immediately goes down again, vision spinning and greying out, leaving him winded and silent. 

The weight of what he’s just done comes crashing down on him, and he lifts one hand to cover his eyes—as if that could do anything to cover the magnitude of it.

_God, what is wrong with me?_

“Alright, just…just try to stay calm, okay? Here—” Martin says, ever patient, holding out the glass of water toward him.

When Jon takes it and brings it up to his lips, his hands shake so badly that Martin is forced to keep a hold on it as well.

“Christ, Jon,” he mutters under his breath, brow furrowing deeper with worry.

They sit in silence for a few moments after that, Martin placing a grounding hand on Jon’s good knee, just watching his heaving breaths which show no sign of easing. Jon can nearly hear the thoughts turning over in Martin’s mind, as he frantically considers what to do under an exterior of forced calm.

“Let me read you one,” he says at last, voice leaving little room for argument.

“No, I-I can’t—”

“ _You have to._ You have to, Jon—just look at yourself.”

Jon drops his head again, staring at his knees as he can feel the tremors wracking his entire body.

“You’re ill, and this is the only way to treat it for now. I know you hate it, and I know how guilty it makes you feel but…if this is what it takes to keep you alive, then _I_ will do it if you won’t. Because I love you, and I refuse to see you hurt.”

Tears begin to flow anew halfway through his words, the shaking growing even more violent with the awful realization that Martin is right. Jon does not reply, cannot make himself voice it—but does not try to stop him when he stands from the coffee table, collecting a statement from the folder sitting in the drawer of the end table. When he returns, he sits on the end of the sofa, reaching his arms out toward Jon’s shoulders.

“Here, lie down, love—just lie here, and I’ll read.”

Jon cannot find it in himself to refuse, slowly tilting his body to rest his head on Martin’s thigh. Pulling the blanket up over his shoulders, Martin cards a hand through Jon’s hair as he begins to read—sobs wracking his rail-thin frame even as he does. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tries desperately not to hear it, tries not to _See_ —but the Eye is relentless now, drinking in this stranger’s account of terror with elation. When Martin’s voice comes to a halt at last, he sets the statement down on the arm of the sofa, looking down toward Jon.

“I’m sorry, darling, I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, bending over to plant a kiss on Jon’s forehead, resuming stroking his hair afterwards.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Jon can feel his insides beginning to knit back together. The godawful static is barely audible now, where it had roared in his ears just moments ago, and his stomach no longer feels like a hollowed-out cavern. Even so, he is disgusted with himself—for needing this, for feeling better afterwards—and most of all, for the nervousness he can still detect in Martin’s gentle ministrations.

_He’s still frightened._

_And I caused it._

_Because that’s who I am, now._

_…I’ve got to make this right._

He opens his eyes—warm hazel meeting aberrant green.

“I’m so sorry, Martin,” he starts, voice hoarse and thick. “For all of this. I…I know I’ve hurt you, and it’s not right.”

Martin’s hands come to a stop, one coming to rest on his chest, the other cupping his face.

“This is why you’ve been running, isn’t it? And why we had the row yesterday—you were hungry?”

“It’s still my fault,” Jon corrects him quickly. “I won’t…I won’t try to deny that.”

Martin sighs, looking away for a moment to swallow down the bitter memory.

“Alright, but…I’m sure it didn’t help.”

“…no, it didn’t,” Jon is forced to admit in a whisper.

A few minutes pass by in silence, Martin resuming his gentle brushing through Jon’s hair as Jon holds his other hand close to his chest, willing the warmth to seep back into his bones. In—out, in—out—his breathing at last breaks even, his heart feeling lighter than it has in weeks. At last, Jon moves to sit up, bracing heavily on his arms and tipping his head on Martin’s shoulder with a groan.

“Still dizzy?” Martin asks quietly.

Jon hums his assent, allowing his eyes to flutter closed against it.

“When’s the last time you’ve eaten? Actual food, I mean,” Martin continues, turning to face him with a start.

“Hmm. Not sure,” Jon mutters, burrowing into his shoulder.

Martin sighs, looking upwards briefly to shake his head before pulling Jon closer, wrapping his arms firmly around him.

“We’ll have to work on that,” he whispers, pressing a kiss into his hair before resting his chin on top.

In response, Jon turns his head slightly toward whatever bit of Martin is nearest him and presses a kiss upon it—drawing a soft huff of laughter from him, before he pulls Jon even closer and continues.

“I’m sorry this is so hard on you, darling. I know I can’t…I can’t truly understand. But from an outside perspective, you reading these statements to stay alive is just doing the best you can in an impossible situation, you know? And if everything goes right, if…if we can figure out how to end this, maybe the nightmares will be gone. Maybe you won’t have to do this anymore.”

Everything in him wants to rail against this optimism, this hopefulness—out of sheer terror that it couldn’t possibly be true. Nevertheless, without the static pulsing through him, he is able to bite his tongue—choosing instead to picture the future he knows is in Martin’s mind: one where they’re together, where they’re safe, where they can spend all their energy and time learning to love each other well.

A ghost of a smile passes over his face, and he turns to kiss Martin’s shoulder.

“I really hope you’re right,” he whispers.

“…you don’t think I am, though,” Martin replies, sorrow evident in his tone.

_Oh, Martin._

It never ceases to amaze Jon how well Martin can read him—somehow able to infer his thoughts with no powers at all, without even looking at him. 

“I’m…I’m trying to learn to hope,” Jon admits with all the honesty he can stomach, lifting his head to gaze into the warm depth of Martin’s eyes.

He’s sure there is no sight more gorgeous than the one right in front of him.

“You…you _are_ my hope, Martin,” he murmurs, cupping his face with his hands. “You, and nothing else.”

The blush and sunny smile he draws onto Martin’s cheeks sparks a joy in his heart he has not felt for weeks.

“Cheesy,” Martin giggles, and Jon is done for.

He pulls him into a gentle kiss, slow and languid, cherishing Martin’s soft noise of pleasure when he strokes a hand through his faded curls. Though his battered body shakes with the effort of it, Jon pushes forward—wanting nothing more than to shower him with all the love he has to give. Seeming to sense his exhaustion, however, Martin breaks it off, tilting Jon’s forehead to rest against his own.

“I love you, you know. I don’t think I could ever stop loving you. Please…please tell me next time it’s getting bad, okay? So I can understand, and I can help you before you hurt yourself like this,” he chokes off, closing his eyes against rising tears. “It breaks my heart.”

“I know. I know, Martin, and I’m so sorry,” Jon replies, brushing their lips together briefly before returning to press their foreheads back together. “I’m sorry for everything—for not explaining, the yelling, the hurt, just—just all of it. I-I love you, and you deserve better than that—you deserve my best, and I haven’t given it to you, and I am so, so sorry.”

His voice trembles and breaks and fades into a whisper by the end, tears threatening to spill over once again—and they do when Martin plants a lingering kiss on his forehead, then pulls him to rest against his chest.

_I love him I love him I love him_

“You’re forgiven, Jon. You’re already forgiven.”

The weight that lifts from his chest at these words allows Jon to breathe for what feels like the first time in months. Curling up against the warmth of his body, both still shivering in the damp, they listen to the thunder outside—both fearing that the worst is yet to come, but strengthened in the knowledge that they will be together when it does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope y'all have a wonderful day! <3

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! please feel free to yell at me in the comments or on tumblr @celosiaa!


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